Aftermath
by arwenthemuse
Summary: "Helen," Nikola finally breathes, and her gaze flashes back to him as if she's trying to convey some hidden meaning with her eyes. Gratitude, he thinks. And warmth. He feels it before he thinks it, and when he thinks it he can't make sense of it.


**A/N: **Jocelyn requested some Helen "fluff" based around the fact that 1) Nikola definitely would have been part of the Sanctuary in season 5, and 2) that there would be some awkward "...oh, we're alive" time. You know me, of course... I'm not good at simple fluff, so I uh... may or may not have delivered exactly what she wanted, but I hope she's pleased. Ahem.

* * *

The look in her eyes is finality, and suddenly Nikola understands. It takes every ounce of effort not to rush back in, grab her by the arm, drag her to safety. He wants to shield her from whatever blow is coming, keep her safe, because she's the only one who can possibly be there when the others are beyond old and grey, settled in their graves. The charm of being the only one of his kind is wearing thin; Nikola is tired of being alone.

She'd call it selfish, though, and while the others may view it differently, in fifty years or so, the others will all be gone. He doesn't want any more spots on his record with Helen. And so, even though Helen courts death without fear, he tells himself that she has a plan - that one hundred and thirteen years have culminated in this moment and that somehow she will live, despite the sorrowful resolution in her gaze. He fills himself with faith and hope, and he taps (no, slams his finger into) the control pad as resolutely as Helen stands.

* * *

When he sees her again, she's like a vision, bruises and all. He exhales heavily, staring at her in disbelief as the breath leaves him, and she cants the barest flicker of a smile at him. Again, only one thing keeps him from rushing for her and gathering her into himself; this time, it's the pain written across hidden depths of her expression; the subtle pull of her lips, the twinge in her jaw, and the particular furrow of her brow. Medical science has never quite been his forte, but he's studied alongside the best. Further study proves that slow, purposeful breaths mean a fractured rib, at the very least, and the way she holds her head without turning it suggest whiplash. How many more injuries does she have? He's not sure he wants to know, much less how she acquired them.

"Doc?" He's forgotten Henry's with him.

"Henry. Nikola." Less bravado, more relief. Her smile grows as her eyes flicker between the two men, neither of whom can quite bring themselves to approach.

"Helen," Nikola finally breathes, and her gaze flashes back to him as if she's trying to convey some hidden meaning with her eyes. Gratitude, he thinks. And warmth. He feels it before he thinks it, and when he thinks it he can't make sense of it.

"I have something to show you."

"That's all you have to say?"

The grin quirks at her lips again, and she turns her back to them and promises: "You'll like it."

* * *

She rolls her head about on her shoulders slowly, carefully, stretching with her teeth gritted against the pain. Frankly, Nikola is surprised that Caleb's blow only hyperextended muscles; it ought, he thinks, have shattered her jaw. Lucky break, he supposes; Helen has always been a lucky woman.

She's distracted by the stretching as he watches from the doorway, but turns until she can just see him in her peripheral vision when he begins to move forward. "Hello, Nikola," she musters quietly, giving him little more heed; Nikola's never needed an invitation to say what he has to say. But this time, Nikola has nothing to say; he circles around her desk with some hesitation, drops his hands to her shoulders, kneads gently around the base of her neck with his thumbs. She freezes again, and is silent for a long moment as he works. At last, she swallows. "What are you doing?"

His hands stop working. "Too much?"

"I - no. It's... it's nice," she finishes in an awkward mumble, tilting her head in the opposite direction as she resumes her stretching. "Would you? - just a little higher up."

Tears spark in her eyes when he obediently shifts his efforts higher on her neck, but it's little more than the pain of the stretches she's already doing. Still, he has to ask. "Is that - ?"

For the first time, Nikola is utterly unsure of himself around her. She responds with an exhale that is half-laugh, half-sob, and offers the barest shake of her head in response. "Fine." Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat quietly before amending: "Perfect." Another breath of silence passes before she adds, quietly: "Thank you."

He works in silence for a long few moments, pushing her hair gently over her shoulders when he finds a few strands in the way, thumbs easing their way along her sore muscles. Helen is fidgety about it, playing with her ring or bracelets and rubbing her sprained wrist. He doesn't address it; instead, he backtracks to the root of the problem - one she's not altogether ready or willing to address. She's only human, after all, with a heart more fragile than it often seems.

"DId you know you were going to live?"

Helen's quiet for a span in the wake of the question, and his efforts cease, though his hands rest gently upon her shoulders.

"I hoped so" she replies quietly.

He traces his thumb across her shoulder in response, but even this is a restless, unsure gesture. "Ready to go down with your ship, hmm?"

"I've lived a long time now, Nikola. Even longer than you." This isn't to say she does not value her own life, and after a moment she clears the air of that theory, noting that he's frozen behind her, thumb no longer moving cautiously across her back. "I was prepared for the worst."

"Aren't you always," he replies in a flat tone, but he resumes his movements, and she purses her lips as he once again finds her sore spots. "How are the ribs?"

He was right when he first saw her; she's broken two of them, and really, he probably doesn't need to ask. She's remained bolt upright this whole time, breathing with the same dogged rhythm. "As well as can be expected."

Small talk between them is such a strange thing, he realizes belatedly, tight-lipped himself. But he's also right in believing that if one of them is to pursue that kiss, it's him. Helen is usually quite the go-getter herself, and she's far less subtle than a gun, but she keeps her heart locked safely out of reach.

Distracted, he kneads a little too hard, and she gasps in pain, inciting another grunt when the quick breath strains muscles in her chest. "Gently," she reminds him, and he withdraws as if he's touched a hot surface.

Inflicting pain upon her makes him suddenly self-conscious, and he's hyper-aware of his surroundings - even nervous. No. Now is not... later. Later is better. "I should go. You... should take a hot shower. Ease up those muscles." Smooth. He's forgotten some of that Victorian charm he had. Thought he had. Who knows anymore?

He leaves in a rush. Helen spins her chair to watch him with half a frown, still fiddling with her jewelery. She knows what he wants, but either does not know how to how to help him, or does not want to; even she's not quite sure.

* * *

Later, he is braver. Or more reckless. He's not sure. All he's certain of is that he's stammered more in a week with Helen than he has at any point in his life.

"Helen," draws her gaze away from a row of books, and her eyes flash up to him with a start. Her neck still hurts, but not enough to keep her from tilting her head sideways as she peers at him.

He stops a respectful distance away - bearing down on her space, but waiting for her lead in that way of his. This time, he's not flirtatious or suggestive though. This time, he's direct, honest. "You kissed me." She's defensive, immediately looks like she wants to argue, and he interrupts her; even Nikola's had courage to build, and uncomfortable or not, this will not escape him. "You wanted to kiss me, so you kissed me."

Helen is shell-shocked, lips parted for a moment before she bites down and lowers her head again. Silence passes between them; Nikola is strangely patient. Finally: "I was saying goodbye."

"And you chose a kiss. I'm flattered."

"Actions have always been simpler than words." Bitter. Forced. She hates herself for the tone as soon as she speaks. But they both know, sour tone or not, there's honesty behind the words - and that the old phrase is true: actions also speak louder.

It takes every ounce of strength within him not to slip back behind those walls of his, to reassume that casually flirtatious demeanor he's always used around her. He doesn't want that awful excuse for normalcy that plagues them, so he brushes her own treatment of the issue violently away. He doesn't know what to say, but it does strike him that the words aren't only true, they're true _now_. Or so he thinks. And so, he closes the distance between them, and she has only enough time to cast a questioning gaze at him before he captures her mouth and, supporting her back with one hand, gently guides her back against the bookcase.

She does not resist; rather, she follows his lead, mouth lingering against Nikola's until he withdraws. The shadow of his body remains over her even after the kiss is broken, one hand on her hip, the other arm leaned against a shelf at shoulder level. Helen always gets what she wants; it's a shame she still hasn't quite decided what she wants where Nikola is concerned, because the man hovering over her is surely contained within her palm.

"Nikola," she mumbles after a moment, but he shakes his head.

"You have a terrible tendency to scold me when you speak, Helen."

"Then kiss me again."

It seems to Nikola that these are the strangest words Helen has ever uttered, but he's become much better at following orders these days, and he does not hesitate. Her hands rise to his chest and he caresses her jaw as if it's only natural, and when he withdraws it is with the swift, numerous kisses of lovers. Memory of her lips will not help him now; she's nothing like the Helen he's kissed, even bedded, in the past. This Helen demolishes what remains of the walls she's built up over some two-hundred and forty years in a single blow and succumbs to his ministrations without hesitation. Soon, he tugs her into himself, wrapping his arms tenderly around her, conscious of her injuries.

Helen softens in his arms, sinking into him as if it's the most natural of embraces. She has borne the weight of many for years; she should, he thinks, be held once in awhile. Just held. And since he has no intention of aggravating her pain or slowing her healing, he does just that.

But tenderness gives way to confidence again, although the cocky tone he musters truly is a playful display. "You kissed me because you love me," he eggs, tilting his chin down to nearly sing-song into her ear. "Say it, Helen." She sighs, shaking her head minutely against him, and he shifts again in response. "Come along, Helen. If you can't say it, you can't leave."

"Nikola Tesla," she reprimands lightly, tilting her head as far as is comfortable, eyeing him. "Blackmail?"

"You know I'm not above it, and you did kiss me first."

"In a state of extreme emotional distress," she scoffs, and his arms tighten around her, but barely. "Nevertheless, I do love you."

"You're not just saying that because I threatened you?"

"Perhaps."

"Hmm. Of course."

"You're a surprising man."

"Am I?"

She goes quiet for a long moment before pushing away from him a little. "Thank you, Nikola. For everything. For respecting my decisions and doing what needed to be done. I know I haven't been forthright lately. I owe all of you a great deal."

"Please, Helen." It's Nikola's turn to scoff, but there's a hint of apology behind his own tone. "When have I ever been forthright? I suppose it's only fair. Par for the course, even."

"_Par for the_- Nikola!"

Her outrage is met with a chuckle. "Don't hurt yourse - " Too late, because she's made the mistake of pushing away from him rather quickly in her play, and is left gasping as he draws her swiftly but carefully back in, hand going almost reflexively to the back of her head as her forehead meets his shoulder. "You're terrible at taking it easy, Helen," he grumbles into her hair, sliding his hand down to rest gently on her shoulder while she quietly recovers, face hidden from view.

"I haven't had much opportunity," she reminds him in an undertone, sniffing once before lifting her head again. Her eyes are damp, and she flinches when he brushes the dampness away with the pad of his thumb; she's not used to being coddled. "I'm going to lie down. Take some medicine. Get this pain under control," she finishes in broken phrases, pushing away more carefully this time and leaning against the bookshelf for a moment as she takes a few careful breaths, wincing at the discomfort in her chest.

"Need some help? I wrap bandages as well as anyone."

"Don't be daft, Nikola. Most doctors stopped binding fractured ribs ages ago. It keeps you from breathing properly."

"Which can cause parts of the lungs to collapse," he adds in understanding, frowning thoughtfully. "You know, medicine never was my specialty."

"That's why I'm the doctor and you're the inventor," she remarks pointedly.

He cants one shoulder in half a shrug. She's right, and he has no business following her to bed. He steals another swift taste of her mouth and departs, leaving Helen to stare quietly at the door, putting pressure on her injured side with an open palm.


End file.
